


Day 11: Mulled Wine

by ConsultingPurplePants



Series: 25 Days of Fic-Mas (originally posted to tumblr) [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunken Snogging, M/M, Mulled wine, Sherlock is adorable, just the way i like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 05:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5405393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingPurplePants/pseuds/ConsultingPurplePants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sleeps at inappropriate times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 11: Mulled Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, this one's kind of a long one again. Hope you guys don't mind :)

John slowly rises out of sleep, vaguely aware of his surroundings but still encased in a cocoon of blissful warmth. He stretches out his stiff arm and wraps it around Sherlock, pulling his sleeping form closer. One hand starts to gently stroke Sherlock’s back, while the other comes down to rest in his curls. Sherlock makes an adorable snuffling sound into his neck, and John smiles into the top of his head, and…

Reality comes crashing down on John with a vague feeling of nausea and a pounding headache. Sherlock is naked and lying on top of him. John is naked and Sherlock is naked and they are smushed together on the sofa, and this has never happened before, no matter how much John has wanted it to. John’s eyes fly open, and the movement must have startled Sherlock, because suddenly he is awake as well. His head flies up from where it was nuzzling at John’s neck and he gives the most perfect imitation of a deer in the headlights (accompanied by a sort of _Ngggghh_ ) before springing up from the sofa and slamming the door to his bedroom.

The loud bang of the door smashes past John’s skull and into the deepest recesses of his brain, and he puts his head between his knees in an effort to lessen the pain. He hasn’t been this hungover since uni, and now he remembers why. His head pounding too much to think about what must have happened last night, he drags his sorry arse to the loo to get some paracetamol, then to his room to get some clothes.

On his way back down, praying that the paracetamol will kick in soon, he catches sight of two empty bottles of red wine on the floor near the door to the kitchen. A few fuzzy images (involving tongues?) flash in his mind, then disappear as quickly as they came.

John shakes his head, then takes a step into the kitchen and groans. It’s a disaster. There is orange peel everywhere, the table is tacky with juice and some spilled wine, there are explosions of nutmeg and cinnamon everywhere, and John curses his past self for thinking his present self would be in a state to clean this up. He pads slowly inside, dodging bits of fruit, and makes it to the kettle to make two cups of tea. As he sits down at the table to wait, he catches sight of a piece of orange that looks like it’s been sucked on, and closes his eyes as last night finally comes back to him.

_Several mugs of mulled wine in, John’s grandmother’s recipe is clearly working its magic. They’re both sitting on the sofa with a pleasant flush in their cheeks, thighs touching, and John feels light and content. He watches Sherlock’s hands wave around as he drunkenly recounts one of Anderson’s mishaps, then lets his eyes drift lower and fixate on Sherlock’s neck. It looks so long and beautiful from this angle, and John wishes he could just… Sherlock abruptly stops talking and John realizes he’s already leaned up and kissed Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock slowly turns his head towards him, and John smiles a bit muzzily, and suddenly they’re kissing, drinking the wine from each other’s mouths. Sherlock’s tongue strokes past his and he tastes the citrusy-spicy taste on it as he winds his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock groans into his mouth and John pulls him closer until John is straddling him, teasingly plundering his mouth from above._

_Sherlock sneaks his hands up John’s shirt, and everything is lovely and warm from the wine. John breaks away for a moment, and then they’re both shirtless, lazily rubbing up against each other, their mouths hot on each other’s bodies. Their trousers go next, then their pants, and suddenly they’re both naked in the middle of their sitting room. John can feel the warmth from the wine spreading everywhere in his body, and he presses closer to Sherlock, pulling him towards him so that Sherlock is lying on top of him, and everything is pleasant and slow as John nuzzles into Sherlock’s neck, pulling muffled moans from him with his tongue. Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck, murmuring his name, and then stops._

_His whole body goes rather limp, and for a moment the doctor in John panics. He’s about to shake him when he hears a very quiet snore somewhere in the vicinity of his clavicle, and finds he’s having trouble breathing simply from how adorable Sherlock is (or maybe it’s just the wine). He reaches the hand that isn’t trapped by a consulting detective down and waves it around in a completely uncoordinated manner until he finds a blanket to pull over the two of them, and he follows Sherlock down into sleep._

His memory returned to him, John grins to himself as he goes to make a second cup of tea. He sits down at the table with it, readjusts his chair, and settles down to wait for Sherlock to realize that he knows.

***

Sherlock has never been this warm or this comfortable as he nuzzles closer to the body beneath him. John is holding him close with a hand on his back, and Sherlock feels wonderfully at home. He realizes that since he is now aware of this, it means this dream will end soon and he will wake up, cold and alone in his bedroom.

That train of thought comes to a spectacular, screeching halt when John freezes up beneath him. Dream John never freezes up beneath him, which means… Sherlock jerks his head up and nearly passes out from the shock of John lying beneath him, stark naked. Last night’s events come crashing down on him all at once, and he nearly dies of mortification as he realizes that he and John nearly had sex last night, and they probably would have, _if he hadn’t fallen asleep on John_. That thought plays on continuous replay in his head as he flies from the couch and into his bedroom as fast as his legs can carry him.

From the shelter of his (cold, lonely) bed, he sees John go into the bathroom (slowly, dragging his feet, he must be even more hungover than Sherlock). John takes out some paracetamol and leaves, probably to go make tea and wallow in his misery. Sherlock is fairly sure that John was just as shocked as he was, which means John probably doesn’t remember what happened last night. His brain doesn’t work as fast as Sherlock’s does. The bathroom now free, Sherlock shakes off his dizziness and goes to take some paracetamol himself. Hopefully, John won’t remember what happened and they can just go on as they were. He returns and lets himself collapse back into his bed, arm over his eyes.

Thirty minutes later, he comes to the uncomfortable conclusion that he won’t be able to stay in here all day. John will become suspicious (he must not remember what happened last night!). Sherlock lies back and presses the palms of his hands to his eyes; why did this have to be so difficult? He had literally had everything he had ever wanted in his arms last night, and he had fallen asleep. He’s fairly sure he’s never going to drink wine again. Or any sort of alcohol. He groans loudly into his hands.

The creaking sound of a chair being readjusted reminds him that John is awake, and that he’s going to have to leave the room. He wraps the sheet around himself (he has to pretend nothing is wrong) and drags himself out of his bedroom and towards the kitchen. Just as he rounds the corner, he catches sight of John nursing his second cup of tea, and then makes his worst mistake since falling asleep last night: he makes eye contact with John. And just like that, he knows that John knows, and at the same time that it is too late to flee. John’s face is making very odd contortions, and just as Sherlock is starting to worry for his health, John explodes into laughter. He’s shaking, he’s crying, he’s holding his sides and bending forwards in his chair, seemingly unable to stop. There are tears streaming from his eyes and dripping from the bottom of his chin, and Sherlock can feel himself shrinking into his sheet. Tears of an entirely different variety start to sting at the corners of his eyes, and he wants to run back into his room, but he finds he’s frozen in place.

***

Sherlock’s attempt at normality is the funniest thing John has ever seen. He had clearly tried to swan into the kitchen and be his normal self, probably thinking that John hadn’t remembered what happened, but he had failed spectacularly. For one thing, he’s absolutely covered in love bites. John’s always been a bit possessive, and while Sherlock hasn’t left a mark on John, John has left them all down Sherlock’s neck and most of his upper chest. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and his eyes still have a kind of glassy sheen from the alcohol. His lips are swollen and stained with wine, which John admits is actually incredibly sexy, but the combination of all these things makes Sherlock look so completely debauched that John wonders how he could have possibly thought he wouldn’t notice.

Which is why John is now bent double, laughing, because he had had Sherlock in his arms, he had nearly had everything he’d ever wanted, and then Sherlock had fallen asleep, and now he was trying to pretend it had never happened. The utter ridiculousness of the entire situation has him guffawing like never before, but when he looks up at Sherlock, his eyes streaming with mirth, his laughter immediately cuts off.

Sherlock looks like he’s been slapped, and now his chin is wobbling rather dangerously. He’s clearly trying to hold it all in, but his eyes have taken on a different sort of glassy sheen and John realizes what his laughter must look like. He wipes his eyes on the back of the pyjama shirt he had hastily thrown on and gets up to hug Sherlock.

Sherlock stiffens, then relaxes slightly as John’s arms come around him. John pulls back a little so he can see Sherlock’s face, then asks, “Did you want to, last night?”

Sherlock gives a wobbly nod, then immediately goes still. John smiles when he realizes why.

“Yes, that’s what I meant. I wanted to, too.”

This time, Sherlock gives him a more analytical look, as though trying to see if that’s true. “It wasn’t just the wine, was it?”

“No, Sherlock. I mean, it helped, but I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”

Sherlock looks surprised at this, which surprises John even more. He had thought Sherlock knew everything there was to know about him, including this.

“You didn’t know?” This would explain a lot of things, including Sherlock’s seeming lack of interest until last night. John decides that Sherlock needs to know everything. He takes a breath and dives into the abyss.

“Sherlock, I’ve loved you for nearly five years, now. Of course I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

Sherlock blinks, several times, and for nearly a full minute before John starts to get worried. He’s about to raise a hand to wave it in front of Sherlock’s face when Sherlock says, “You… love me?”

John nods hesitantly, and waits.

“I love you too, John,” whispers Sherlock, and John reaches up to pull his head down for a kiss. It feels wonderful, but his headache is back with a vengeance and he feels like his brain is going to leak out of his ears if he makes a physical effort today. When he looks up at Sherlock, the look on his face suggests that he’s having a similar dilemma.

“How about this? We get back to what we were doing this morning before you… had to leave,” John says as tactfully as possible, “And when we wake up later, we’ll get back to what we were doing last night before you… um… had to leave,” and this time John grins wickedly up at Sherlock.

Sherlock blushes furiously but nods, and they pad back to Sherlock’s bedroom together, get undressed, and slip under the covers. John rearranges them until Sherlock’s head is tucked under his chin and their legs are tangled together, and kisses the top of Sherlock’s head.

“Good night, love.”

And Sherlock sighs happily into his skin.


End file.
